Twisted Marriage (Filthy Vows 2)

“Chelsea doesn’t fall for anyone. You’re talking about a heart of fucking steel over there.” He pointed toward the pool and his forearms flexed in a way that—a month ago, I might have noticed.

“Yeah, well, Chelsea also doesn’t swear off sex. Or lose weight. Or stay home at night and play fucking Scrabble.”

“It was one game of Scrabble, and it was my idea,” he argued. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that she was terrible at it?”

“Not particularly,” I said. My stomach let out a low groan of indigestion. “Did you see her reaction to that news about my clients? She’s going to freak out if she finds out what happened between us.”

He stepped closer, so close I could smell the faint scent of grass and chlorine that rose off his clothes. He lowered his voice. “If she finds out what happened. Do you think we should tell her?”

I stumbled. “I—I don’t know. What do you think?”

He put one hand on the counter, shielding me from the back door, and studied the floor, thinking. “I don’t know. I would have thought that she’d be cool about it—but that reaction…” He lifted his chin and met my eyes. “I don’t know.”

Something clattered behind us. I jumped, he spun and we both gawked at the maid who stood at the entrance to the washroom, a basket of laundry in hand. She hesitated. “Mr. Aaron, do you have any dirty clothes for me?”

“No, thank you.” He eased another step away from me and I realized how bad this must look. “Thanks though.” He tossed a look in my direction. “I’m headed out. See ya, Elle.”

“See ya,” I said dully. Turning away from the woman’s judgmental eyes, I cupped my aching midsection and ran up the back stairs to Chelsea’s bedroom.

18

“I’m just worried that…” I stuffed a celery stick in my mouth and spoke around the crispy stalk. “I don’t know. That they’ll be able to tell.”

Easton’s voice crackled through my BMW’s speakers, the noise of a crowd in his background. “That they’ll be able to tell what?”

“You know.” I swallowed the bite. “That I’ve done stuff too.”

He chuckled. “It’s not a stamp that gets branded on your forehead. They’ve already met you. Did it seem like they could tell?”

“No,” I said dully.

“And could you tell that they were swingers? Or were you too busy shoveling pancakes into your mouth?”

“Very funny, asshole.” I made a face. “I paid for every one of those later. But pancakes aside—I was too busy trying to keep myself together to notice anything like that.” But now that I’d had ample time to look back… no. There hadn’t been anything in my meeting with the De Lucas that would have made me think that they were anything other than a normal couple. Well, as normal as a wealthy, painfully good-looking couple with reluctant ties to organized crime could be.

“Are they both going to be at the house tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. The photographer will be there, so at least we won’t be staring at each other the entire time. I can fluff pillows and hide picture frames and stuff.” My phone chimed and a reminder about my appointment flashed across the BMW’s navigation screen. “Crap. I’ve got to go. I’ve got a showing appointment at three and I’m still in the parking lot at work.”

We said our goodbyes and I told him to call me when he finished for the day. Stuffing another stalk of celery in my mouth, I shifted my car into reverse.

* * *

The following afternoon, at three p.m. sharp, I pull down the De Luca’s well-kept street. Floyd was already in front of their house, his van emblazoned with the logo of his real estate photography business. I parked behind his car and walked up to the window, knocking gently on it to catch his attention. He rolled down the window and a grin broke through his thick red beard. “Big house.”

“I know. I’m moving up in the world. Let’s pretend like it’s normal for me.”

“I’m good at pretending.” He reached in the passenger seat and patted his bag. “You ready to roll?”

“Yeah. Let me buzz in through the gate, then I’ll help you carry in your stuff.”

Floyd’s stuff included three tripods and four bags worth of gear. I lugged the lighter of the two tote bags and struggled up the drive behind him. Julia met us at the door with a friendly smile. I waved, unsure if a handshake or hug was in order. I decided on neither and gestured to Floyd, introducing him. She shook his hand and I wondered if she was comparing him to the driver’s license that he’d been required to send over, prior to his arrival.

Floyd hadn’t flinched at the request, shrugging it off without asking why it was needed. “I’m poking around their house,” he’d said. “I get it.”